Brother Mine
by Irene Moriarty xx
Summary: Back before Sherlock became a detective, he struggled with drug and depression problems. But no matter how hard it gets, Mycroft is always there for him and the brothers can always rely on each other. Work in progress. Trigger warning for substance abuse, self-harm, suicide attempt and depression. Don't worry, it doesn't get worse than that...yet. ;)
1. Let's Play Deductions

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed impatiently, scribbling notes into a copybook.

"Can I play with you?" A six-year-old Sherlock entered the room, clutching a small plastic container. "Let's play deductions." Mycroft set down his pencil. His little brother could be very annoying at times, but if there was one thing Mycroft had learned from his years of babysitting him, it was to never, ever let Sherlock get bored. One only had to recall the time when Sherlock had set a potato on fire "just for fun".

"Fine." Mycroft gestured to the Tupperware. "What's in the box?"

Sherlock opened it, revealing some mismatched toys and junk. "I...found this at school."

"You mean you stole it." Sherlock's auburn curls bounced around as he shook his head but his eyes gleamed with a mischievous twinkle. "What have we here?" Mycroft asked, picking up a _Doctor Strange_ comic book. He turned it over in his hands carefully. "The book is in fairly good condition, but the colors are faded. It's old, then. There are more recent creases on the paper and some stains. The owner of this book, who took so much care of it, would never spill anything on or fold the pages. That means it's changed hands, then. Probably a gift from a father or favorite uncle. Most likely uncle, as it's been out in the open. If it was from the father it would still be up on a shelf somewhere. Now, the occasion. This isn't just any everyday present or Christmas gift, this is a special collectible. Most likely a birthday. A milestone birthday. Basically we're looking for a classmate of yours who just turned ten and received this as a gift from his or her uncle."

Sherlock grinned. "Spot on. That was amazing!" Mycroft gave him a rare smile. He did like to impress Sherlock, after all, he was the smarter one. "My turn." Sherlock lifted a box of crayons out. "These crayons have been used for awhile. The box is old and the lid is missing. Most of the crayons are broken, especially the pinks and purples, but some of the broken ones are also sharpened. That means that those colors are used more frequently than others. The colors that fall into that category are pink, magenta, blurple—"

"Blurple?" Mycroft asked, amused.

"Blue purple. Blurple." Sherlock explained. "The owner of this box is most likely a girl, then."

"Wait," Mycroft disagreed. "You can't just assume the gender of someone based off the colors they like. That's sexist."

"Balance of probability," Sherlock replied, in an uncanny impression of Mycroft. He shook his head. "That's all I got. I'm stuck."

"Here." Mycroft took the crayons with his hand. "The owner of the crayons seems to have some anger issues. As you were kind enough to point out, most of the crayons are broken, but when you try to piece them together they don't fit. A lot of the wax powder has been disintegrated, which means that the user has applied a considerable amount of force upon them."

"Maybe they're just strong." Sherlock suggested.

"No, brother mine. Coloring is very useful as therapy, or to calm down, isn't it?"

"I guess you win the round," Sherlock said, carefully arranging the items neatly in the box. He promptly strode out of the room. _Smart Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought, impressed. _I wish I was as clever as him!_


	2. I Didn't Mean To

Sherlock Holmes shivered as he sat on the roof. It was a chilly evening, but he had the funny feeling it wasn't the weather that was making him freeze.

Down below he heard Mummy calling him, but he made no move to reply. No doubt his father had already laid out the Thanksgiving meal, and they were still waiting on the youngest member of the family.

An overwhelming wave of sadness and loneliness washed over him. _I tried, Redbeard._ He thought. _I dug and dug and dug...but it was too late._ Then he chided himself for being so emotional. Why was he so upset over Redbeard's disappearance? He was just a dog, after all...

Something about that didn't seem quite right to him, but he refused to think about Redbeard. His mind simply didn't want to go there.

Sherlock looked out at the countryside, the beach up ahead. How would it be if he just took a boat and sailed...away? He didn't know where he'd go, he just had to get out. Someplace far, far away.

"Sherlock?" His dad came out onto the deck. "Dinner!"

Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to five, trying to push away the depression. He just needed to get through the next hour. After all, it was a time for thanks, not sorrow.

"Coming, father." Sherlock retraced the steps he had used to climb up there, slowly shimmying down the chimney and then landing in the flower bed with a soft _fwump_. One hour. Just an hour. He could do that, right?

ooOoo

Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly at the blood slowly leaking out of the gauze, the shining red knife still on the bathroom counter. What had he done?

The tears had came as usual. Sherlock always felt frustrated and alone, but it was worse during the night. Especially this night, the two-year anniversary of Redbeard's death.

He couldn't sleep. After he had cried himself out Sherlock strode over to his sock drawer and pulled out the blade from it's hiding spot. Normally he'd stare at it for a while, the put it back and return to sleep. But today had been different.

 _Just one cut._ Sherlock had promised himself, but one cut became two, which became three and soon he couldn't stop himself until there was literally a running stream of scarlet coming from his arm and he felt like he was going to pass out.

Sherlock knew he had gone too far when it hadn't stopped bleeding after the first couple minutes. He'd used up all the gauze and bandages in the bathroom cupboard. He needed help, fast. But who? Not his parents. They'd have him in therapy and rehab faster than you could say 'Obviously'. That only left Mycroft.

Mycroft and him had a strained relationship. Ever since his dog died, the two seemed to drift apart. But they were still brothers, after all. He trusted Mycroft enough not to immediately turn him in to the officials, but could he keep his secret safe for a long time?

Sherlock would have to take the risk. Slowly, wrapping his arm in a towel so as not to splatter blood over the walls, he quietly walked down the hallway to his brother's room and pushed the door open.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered. "Wake up!"

Mycroft stirred and opened his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? It's 1am in the morning."

"I need help." Sherlock replied timidly.

"You always need help. Now go away." Mycroft turned to pull his blanket over him. Sherlock tried to yank it back, but he used his bad arm and cried out in pain.

"What have you done?" Mycroft sat up, alarmed. He took Sherlock's hand in his and carefully unwrapped the towel. His face paled and his voice became more urgent. "We need to stitch this up, fast." Mycroft reached for his bedside lamp.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You can't tell Mummy and Daddy! Please, Mycroft. I didn't mean to. It was an accident." He pleaded.

"How else are we going to get help?" Mycroft demanded. "I have to. You just tried to kill yourself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's called self-harm. There's a difference. And anyways, I was hoping you could drive me. You're seventeen and Mummy always parks her car outside."

"Dammit, why me?" Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "Fine. But you're taking out the trash for the next two months."

"You got it." Sherlock replied, grateful.

Seventeen minutes later they were in their parent's car, racing towards the nearest clinic. Sherlock anxiously kept checking his phone, positive that his parents woud've heard them leave, but no calls or texts came.

Mycroft came to a screeching halt in front of the building. They both ran in.

"Hello, how may I help you?" A greeter at the desk asked.

"It's my cousin," Mycroft answered. They both agreed to use false identities to keep their names out of the record. "Bartholomew Cadwaller. He fell onto some broken glass."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. Despite the circumstances, he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. Mycroft certainly had a way with coming up with weird names.

Almost as soon as they got there, Sherlock's arm was stitched up and they were free to go. He found himself climbing back into his bedroom window in no time at all.

"Don't do this ever again," Mycroft said sternly to him as Sherlock dismounted from the windowsill.

"I won't. I promise." Sherlock replied. Mycroft turned to go, but Sherlock suddenly called out, "Wait, Mycroft!"

He paused for a moment, then turned around. "Yes, brother dear?"

"Thank you." Sherlock couldn't see very well in the dark, but he swore he caught a smile on Mycroft's face. Then he was gone.

 **Author Note:**

 **Wow that got real dark real fast...but I guess I'm just feeling a bit angsty right now :). This is still a work in progress, and I'll (hopefully) have more chapters tomorrow, so stay tuned!** **Thanks for reading!**

 **-Irene xx**

 **P.S. An error in this story was brought to my attention by a reader (I'm American, so sorry if I get some of the British components wrong :o). Thanks for letting me know.**


	3. Falling Higher

"Yes, mum?" Mycroft drawled into his phone, stirring a cup of tea.

"Myc, dear, I need to ask you something. I'm so sorry to trouble you, especially since you've got finals coming up, but it's Sherlock." Mrs. Holmes spoke quickly into the phone. "He didn't come home last night, and none of his...classmates have seen him recently. I know he's up to something, and I was hoping you could maybe do some digging? You have connections in the security department in London, right?" She was desperate and sounded close to tears.

"I'll find him, don't worry." Mycroft reassured her, hanging up. He hadn't seen Sherlock since he'd left for college, and none of them had tried to contact each other. But they were brothers. Mycroft was there for him once. He'd be there for Sherlock again.

Mycroft dialed a new number. "I need you to put your best surveillance team on someone." He instructed quietly.

"Who?" A female voice replied at the end.

"My brother, Sherlock Holmes."

ooOoo

The syringe dropped to the floor with a clatter as Sherlock groaned and rolled over on the couch. The drugs were wearing off and he felt like shit. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and yet his throat felt dry. How long had he been in here, this run-down shack? A day? Two days? He couldn't remember.

Sherlock had been using drugs for quite a while now, without his parents knowing. He was careful, of course, only taking them when he was bored and needed stimulation. But then, one day, the emotions came back.

Sherlock hated feelings. Ever since that night where he had cut himself too deep, he vowed to shut himself off from them entirely. It worked for a while. His intelligence and sense of logic were also heightened, and he was hailed as a genius.

But it couldn't last forever. They bottled up and fizzed like gum mixing with soda, and before he knew it, the cork blew.

Sherlock couldn't face it. He was weak, a coward. So he ran away to his only place of refuge, his mind, not caring what happened to his physical self.

He wouldn't be able to go home, not yet. He knew he had to face reality at some point, but not now. There was one last syringe, just an arm's reach away. One more high, that was all he wanted.

Suddenly, the door opened. Sherlock would've ran into the next room, but his mind was sluggish he couldn't move. _I've definitely had_ _it_ , he thought. _The police or my parents are here to take me away._

But instead, it was a familiar, younger voice who greeted him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft rushed over and sat down on the sofa with him. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He pressed, shaking him slightly.

"Uh huh." Sherlock murmured. Relief flooded through him. His brother was here to come rescue him. He was safe.

Then he rolled over and promptly threw up on the floor.

"What have you taken?" Mycroft wondered aloud, picking up all the syringes, careful not to touch the puddle of mess. "Why, Sherlock, why?"

"Redbeard." Sherlock whispered. Mycroft abruptly stood up. "You need to go home. Mummy and daddy are worrying about you. Can you stand?"

Sherlock nodded, but when he put his weight onto his feet he collapsed. Mycroft caught him, and without a word swung his arm across his shoulder, half-carrying, half-dragging him to the door.

"Just one thing," Mycroft said as he brought Sherlock into his house, about twenty minutes later. He carefully laid Sherlock on the bed and leaned over him. "Keep a list. Of everything you've taken. Sherlock, do you promise me?"

"I promise," replied Sherlock drowsily, before sinking into slumber.


	4. Can't, or Won't?

_Weirdo_

 _Freak_

 _Loony_

 _Nutter_

 _They don't understand,_ Sherlock thought, frustrated, as he pounded on the pedals of his bike. _No one does. I'm too smart for them. But I'm also too alone._

The day had started off alright enough, Sherlock wasn't in a good mood but he wasn't in a bad one, either. He didn't have feelings. At least, that's what he thought.

However, as soon as he stepped into the building, the bullying started. If he was lucky, some kids would just give him nervous looks and promptly vacate the area. Then there were the Overly-Popular kids, as Sherlock called them.

The Overly-Popular kids were comprised mostly of the sporty, athletic boys and their girlfriends. They were the ones who came to school on motorcycles each day, the ones who attended the parties with lots of drinking and alcohol. And they disliked Sherlock. Very much.

Sherlock was confused at first, why they kept throwing carrots and beans at him during lunch hour. It wasn't like he bothered anyone, he always occupied the corner table farthest away from everyone else, face buried in a book. Yet inevitably, every day someone from their table would come over and harass him. Normally it didn't bother him, they were just incompetent morons jealous of his superhuman intelligence. But today was different.

" _Mister Holmes, may I talk to you for a second?" Professor Verner, Sherlock's calculus teacher, called. "It's about your last test."_

 _Sherlock didn't look up from his notebook, but he nodded to show he was listening._

" _You see, when I made the test," the professor continued, "I accidentally wrote some wrong answers on the answer key, and you got all the questions that I wrote wrong, wrong. You're a smart kid. Do you understand what I'm saying?"_

" _I know." Sherlock replied._

" _I beg your pardon?" Verner asked._

" _I know I'm smart," Sherlock answered, mouth twitching, "but I didn't cheat. I didn't look at the answer key."_

" _Then how do you explain your grade?" demanded Professor Verner. "A mere coincidence?"_

" _The universe is rarely ever so lazy," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, "No, professor, I didn't look at the answer key but I know how you think, where you were most likely to make a mistake when solving the problems yourself. I deduced the answer you would've reached to be consistent with the answer key, simply because I assumed you wouldn't notice the errors you had made. I was...mistaken."_

 _Professor Verner smiled. "I know you're bored. But that doesn't give you any excuse to not work hard."_

 _Sherlock frowned. "Professor, I don't think I—"_

" _I'll have to phone your parents, maybe detention." Verner said seriously. "For academic dishonesty and deliberately lying to a teacher." He stood up. "Did you seriously expect me to believe that you 'deduced' the answers to the test, Holmes?" With that the teacher swept from the room, leaving Sherlock fuming in his chair._

"I shouldn't have tried to be clever." Sherlock muttered angrily to himself. "I should've just solved it, even though it's boring."

The click, clack, click of the bicycle wheels intensified as he pedaled faster, not caring where he was going. He was too smart, that was the truth of it. He was too clever, and people hated him for it. No one believed him, understood him. What was the point of being clever if he couldn't prove it?

This had been coming on for a while. The acute sensation of hopelessness and loneliness that would sometimes strike when he was at his weakest. Like a scrape, or a paper cut, it was small but it hurt so much and he wished it would go away. He wished it could all go away. The sunlight hit his eyes and the wind changed directions as he turned onto the freeway. How would it be if he could just...leave?

Sherlock's arms seemed to turn the handlebar of it's own accord. When he realized what he had just done he tried to yank it back, but it was too late. His bike slid on the icy road as he plunged straight into the tide of oncoming traffic.

ooOoo

 _One_

 _Two_

 _Three_

 _Four_

 _Five_

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, expecting a bright room but instead meeting only darkness. The only light source was the full moon, visible beyond a line of trees outside the window. Sherlock patted the bed and looked around. _This isn't my room,_ he thought. _Where the hell am I?_

He rolled over on one side, trying to find a bedside lamp or something of that sort, but yelped as he put weight onto his right arm. It was broken.

Suddenly he heard footsteps, and the sound of the door opening. He looked up, expecting a doctor or nurse, or one of his parents at least. Instead, a long-haired brunette entered the room, her face clouded by a shadow.

"You're up." She said cheerfully, pulling out a phone. "Big brother will be pleased to see you."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. His mouth was dry and instantly wished he had something to drink.

"Um...Kaity." She replied, texting something. "There. Sent." Kaity tucked it away.

"You're lying," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but she merely smiled and tilted her head. "You're working for Mycroft now?"

"Yeah." Kaity said. "Water on your left. He'll be here in a moment." Just like that, she left. Sherlock wanted to ask her more questions, as to how he got there, but he had a funny feeling she wouldn't be able to give him any more answers.

"Ah, Sherlock." Mycroft sidled in, closing the door behind him. "What a state you've got yourself in. My assistant and I were able to smuggle you out of the hospital just in time, before they could ID you."

"I lost control of the bike," Sherlock piped up automatically. "It was windy and slippery and my hands were numb."

"But we both know that's not quite true." Mycroft sighed. A pause, then, "Sherlock, I've been monitoring you, ever since I found you in your hidey-hole three years ago, high as a kite. Your drug habit has almost disappeared, except for select occasions that happen very rarely. Your mood has been improved greatly, nothing could've predicted this. Why did you drive into the road, on purpose?"

"Technically, it wasn't on purpose." Sherlock countered, defensively. "I tried to swerve when I realized what had happened. I did try, Mycroft."

"A try that did spare your life, but not your arm." Mycroft nodded to Sherlock's hand. "What happened?"

Sherlock began to relay the events, not just the math test, but everything that had happened lately. When he finished, Mycroft sat back, deep in thought.

"I should've seen this coming," he said quietly to himself. "The cutting, the drugs...Sherlock, you've been granted the unusual gift of an extraordinary brain. It is both a blessing and a curse. I say curse because it can be hard to relate to others. We are easily frustrated and misunderstood."

"We?" Sherlock asked. "You mean, it happens to you too?"

Mycroft smiled sadly. "All the time, brother dear. Why else do you think I'm so fat?"

Sherlock paused to think. Mycroft was invincible. He could stand anything. At least, that's what he thought. Maybe they had more in common than they liked to think, but rather than stress eating Sherlock turned to more debilitating activities.

"I don't want to do this, anymore." Sherlock spoke up, suddenly. "I want to get clean, try to have a normal life. It isn't working."

"I'll see what I can do." Mycroft stood up, stretching. "I know of a few centers nearby. But rehab is hard, Sherlock. You need to commit, and above all else, trust in others."

Sherlock hesitated. "I can trust people. I've always trusted you."

Mycroft looked slightly surprised at that proclamation, but didn't react otherwise. "There's a pot of chicken stew I just made. I'll have her bring it in for you. Don't spill it on my sheets." With that, he left, Sherlock already feeling better.

 **Author Note:**

 **I wanted to start this story off really fluffy and happy and then let it take a more darker tone, mainly because I felt like having some...fun...with my readers. :). Here's a literal excerpt from my notes:**

 **"** **I'm planning on starting it super cheerful and upbeat, then literally shoving my readers off the roof *no pun intented* into a mess of substance abuse, self-harm, depression, suicide attempts, swearing and violence...etc."**

 **On that happy note, new chapter coming later this week. See y'all!**

 **-Irene xx**


	5. It's Okay

_Swoosh_

Sherlock stared down at the pills, floating in the toilet, swirling and swirling until they were gone. He felt not regret, but instead a deep sense of accomplishment.

Everything had been disposed of. The syringes, the drugs, everything. Two years of rehab, plus therapy had finally paid off. It had taken him a bit longer in rehab because he kept relapsing, but Mycroft had always helped him through it, saving Sherlock's 'lists', bringing him home from alleyways and contacting his parents whenever it happened. It was hard work, between balancing the sessions with college and crime-solving, but now he was finally free.

So it was with a happy (if Sherlock Holmes could call it that) spring in his step that he left the park restroom and sauntered down the bright sunny street, towards Barts. There was still one more person he needed to see.

"Molly!" Sherlock called up the stairs. "Are you working?"

"Yeah, what do you need?" Molly answered from the lab. Sherlock pushed the doors wide open and stepped in.

"I'm done, I'm clean. Everything's gone. And I'm sure—I know it will last."

"That's great to hear, Sherlock." Molly nodded impressively. "So then, why did you come today?"

"I need to see some bodies. But I also just wanted to let you know, you always hated it when I used."

Molly grinned. "I really, did, didn't I? Come down to the mortuary, then, if you're free after lunch."

Just then, a very plump and cheerful Mike Stamford walked in. "Well, well, well, look who's here!"

"Mike." Sherlock greeted him. "You're back to the gym, then, aren't you?"

"Someone told you that, I'm sure." Mike replied, but he shook his hand. "How are you doing? I overheard your conversation. Clean, eh? That's great! Where are you staying?"

Sherlock hesitated. He'd been living with Mycroft for the past couple weeks after he graduated, but now that he was done Mycroft really had no reason to accommodate him. "I'm not sure. Still looking, but I've got my eye on a flat in Central London. Bit pricey, though."

"You'd need to find yourself a flat mate, then." Mike suggested. "Come to the bar with me tonight, maybe I can introduce you to some of my friends."

"Oh, come on," Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Who'd want to be flat mates with me?"

"Don't worry, you'll find someone for sure." Mike replied. "Anyways, I was just heading out to grab a bite. Laters!" Mike swung his briefcase of the table and quickly walked out.

At the time, unbeknownst to Sherlock, there was another man who was asking himself the same question. _Who would want to be flat mates with me?_ In fact, it wasn't just any man, it was an army doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan carrying a psychosomatic limp, though he didn't know it at the time.

In fact, there were many things that neither Sherlock Holmes nor John Watson knew about each other and themselves, but that would all change in a very, very short while.

 **Author Note:**

 **I had been toying with this idea for a while: How much hell can I make Sherlock go through while still staying (somewhat) true to his character? It was actually quite fun writing, planning out all the twists and turns the story was going to take.**

 **The sequence of events follows a really Patrick Melrose (great show apparently, also starring Cumberbatch — haven't watched it yet but looking forward to) sort of plot, about a man struggling with problems that were the consequences of his childhood, and his resulting struggle towards redemption. Yeah, I basically copied all of that from Showtime's website but what can I say? Imitation is the highest form of flattery. ;)**

 **Writing a really dark and angsty fanfic was an experiment for me, as I've never done one like this before, but I glad those of you who gave me feedback liked it. Thanks for all the reviews and support!**

 **-Irene xx**


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